


Toujours

by second_writer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14056980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_writer/pseuds/second_writer
Summary: More, Francis begs. In the bed and Arthur can’t help but to give. Francis hands are as always, desperately clawing, trying to hold on and draw him in deeper, seeking. Looking for that painful similarity, blond hair and green eyes. The green eyes like she had. And it must be the gnawing guild that drives Arthur to do this again and again. The biting knowledge of who the man beneath him is actually searching for. The never changing fact that he was the one to burn her. Burn her until nothing was left but ashes, for a country desperate for love.





	Toujours

More, Francis begs. In the bed and Arthur can’t help but to give. Francis hands are as always, desperately clawing, trying to hold on and draw him in deeper, seeking. Looking for that painful similarity, blond hair and green eyes. The green eyes like she had. And it must be the gnawing guild that drives Arthur to do this again and again. The biting knowledge of who the man beneath him is actually searching for. The never changing fact that he was the one to burn her. Burn her until nothing was left but ashes, for a country desperate for love. 

And it’s been ages. She’s been gone for so long and Francis still grieves her, still seeks her, stills prays to her, still whispers her name in the afterglow. The nights are too warm in this French city, but the cold eats away at Arthur nonetheless. 

And it’s just another such night that Francis asks him to come by and yet, this time he looks so different. Arthur thought he’d learned all the looks by now. He knows the smiles that hide, he knows the fake teary eyes, he knows the gentler side and he knows the horror of when those eyes turn desperate, begging him for anything. A reason, an explanation, a sorry, a substitute or love, just any kind of. But he doesn’t know what those eyes say tonight. They look hauntingly hollow and empty, unreadable. Yet Francis just sits on the bed and gestures, not with the familiar, almost reassuringly guild inflicting, desperation Arthur may have come to crave, no, just with a simple, absentminded ‘sit here’ wave. 

And Arthur, having seated himself, trying so hard to ignore the empty silence, nearly misses the whisper. “I saw her” “I saw her today” Francis says. Honestly, Arthur doesn’t know what to answer. "She doesn’t remember” Another silence and then, with a soft hint of gentleness “She looked happy”

Then Francis lets himself fall back on the bed and the shoulder long blond hair halos around his head. Blue eyes are closed now and it’s a long time, while those eyelids clench and Francis trembles, until a horribly quiet, pained confession is given. “I found her and I still miss her. I still miss her, Arthur, I miss her when she’s right before my eyes. I can’t make her remember the pain, the fire, the light days of summer, how I loved her and loved her and loved her more, but I miss her, I miss her so much. Why Jeanne, Arthur, why Jeanne? Out of all the world, why the only one? Even now, when she’s back after all these years of searching I can’t touch her, or love her or dance again like we did back then. I just don’t know anymore. I don’t know, Arthur. What do I do? What in the world do I do when she’s just gone? When she’s here and alive and I loved her so much, I just still love her, I love her so much, Arthur. I love her so much it hurts, it hurts to see her. It hurts to have her there because every breath and every smile makes me remember how much I miss her. I miss her so much. I miss Jeanne” 

And Francis is curled up and crying and Arthur is lost for words. Lost for actions, lost for confidence. All his foolish pride in thinking he’d gotten to know the man. All the self-justifying repentance of holding the man time and time again. All his self-hatred, all the guild he uses to torture himself, it isn’t enough. It doesn’t hold up. It doesn’t change anything to the whispered “I’m sorry”. He’s already forgiven, but nothing is over. 

After that, Francis doesn’t seek him out again, doesn’t ask any longer. But the fake smiles become more apparent. The fake teary eyes hollower. The gentle side more quiet and the desire is gone. The lies are never ending, and maybe mistakes last longer than Arthur had thought, back then. Maybe he underestimated the God whose saint he burned. Maybe he underestimated how much Francis loved her. Maybe he should have lowered his pride just enough to learn that _toujours_ meant 

forever. 

He would if he could turn back.


End file.
